117

Ancestors Own

The room was small, sparsely and practically furnished. Two bobbing witch-lights hung suspended in the air behind the pale-faced demon woman, and an old man glared at them from her shoulder. The Mester steepled her fingers as she watched them.

“Well?” she said. “Can you give me a good reason? Why should I let you live? After everything your people have done to mine? To my country?”

Her flawless Lochlanach was jarring, and he had a notion how she had acquired it.

“If I judged all the Havi,” said Ansel, his veins full of fire. He didn’t care if he was being foolish, he was tired, angry, and sick at heart. He leaned forward with a snarl. ““If I judged all the Havi by your own acts, and yours alone, I would assume them to be monstrous, demon worshipping cannibals. I would think like my fellow countrymen. I would try to destroy every man, woman and child, I would want to wipe you from the earth, to stomp you out like the evil corrupting scourge you are.”

Next to him Kjell sucked in a breath, but Ansel couldn’t help himself. The words just came tumbling out. “But I know better than to judge an entire people’s worth by one crazed woman,” he spat. “So kill us if you want, but don’t pretend you are better than us! Whatever you think you know, you are mistaken. You don’t know us, you don’t know what we’ve been through or what we’ve done.”

He tried to calm himself down, blowing air out of his nose, his bound hands straining into fists. The tension in the room was palpable. Ansel could see the warriors’ hands, hovering above their weapons, their faces tight as they looked between him and the Mester. To them it must just look like he was yelling incoherently. To his immense surprise the demon woman just smiled at him. She turned and said something in Havian to the warriors. They did not respond but her words were clearly not to their liking. The sour old man at her shoulder mumbled in protest, and she answered him, firm but gentle. The old man shot a look at Ansel that spoke of poisoned daggers, then he followed the warriors warily out of the room. The door shut with a hollow boom.

Their disappearance did nothing to improve Ansel’s confidence.

“You consider yourself innocent?” asked the Mester. The question momentarily took Ansel by surprise.

“No?” he said. “Not innocent, but not evil.”

“Then why did you come here?”

“Your people brought us here!” exploded Kjell. The Mester smiled.

“Not to this castle,” she said. “To these shores. You knew people lived here.”

“I was trying to escape,” said Ansel. “Trying to start a new life.”

Kjell shrugged. “The same,” he said. “And trying to buy my way out of debt. I wasn’t expecting to have to kill anyone.” He withered under the Mester’s stare.

“To the best of my knowledge,” said Ansel. “I have never murdered one of yours.”

“But did you speak up?” said the Mester. “Or did you stand by while others did the killing? Because it was convenient to save your own skins?”

“We left,” said Ansel.

“To save yourselves?” she asked.

“Both,” said Ansel. “To save ourselves, yes. But also we could not stand by any longer.”

“I see,” said the Mester, and she surveyed them with stone-hard eyes. “Let me speak plainly. You need to understand the situation. I will do anything to protect my people.” She patted her chest as she met Ansel’s gaze, and for a moment the spell, the glamour, whatever it was she used to disguise herself dropped, and that vivid, crystalline blue flashed in her eyes. “Anything. Including making pacts with demons - an act which I fully expect to pay for with my life and my soul.”

Kjell shifted uncomfortably, and the woman’s terrifying gaze flickered to him. “Up until the Lochlanach arrived on our shores,” she continued, “this was a relatively easy task. The Havi are, in many ways, simple folk. I’m older than I look. I have been protecting them for far longer than they know. They are like my children. My sacrifice has let them live a blameless existence of peace and ignorance. I cherish their naivety. It is precious to me.”

She leaned forwards, regarding them intensely. A cold sweat started on Ansel’s forehead. Why was she telling them this? Was she just monologuing before she murdered them? It seemed increasingly likely.

“Demon worship is not …common practice then?” asked Kjell. The Mester laughed a brittle, twinkling laugh.

“No!” she said, “although I can see why you might think that, having travelled so recently with my late distant cousin, may the Ancestor’s guide her soul.”

“Mammon?” Ansel asked, hesitantly.

“The very same,” the Mester inclined her head. “The Teurek..the Children of the Moon, the dwellers beneath the sand…they have different views on life and death. They worship power, and their gods are cruel and wicked. Fortunately, with the kind of strength they court comes with a side of madness. I have successfully kept them confined to their desert despite their many attempts to expand east.”

“Fortunately?” asked Kjell.

“Yes,” said the Mester. “Their insanity makes them easier to hunt and destroy. The lives of their monarchs tend to be brief and bloody. You cannot lead an army if you cannot tell reality from fiction.”

Ansel looked up into her unwavering blue eyes.

“How-” he started, and then stopped. He didn’t really understand the game she was playing but it felt very, very dangerous. Was she trying to set them at ease? The vision of the Mester swiping Mammon’s head from her shoulders played in his mind, over and over. He blinked the sweat from his eyes.

“How do I retain my sanity?” she asked, raising one, perfectly groomed eyebrow. “I am protected, in the same way I protect the Havi. Although that protection will not last forever. But that is none of your concern.”

“Why are you telling us this?” asked Kjell. Confusion was making him bold but the Mester merely crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, regarding them seriously.

“I want you to understand,” she said, slowly, “so that you make the right choice. I want you to understand the society you are about to join, and your place in it, if you choose to do so. And if I chose to let you live.”

Ansel’s heart leapt, but he schooled his voice to wariness.

“We have a choice?” he said.

“There is always a choice,” the Mester said, a little bitterly, it seemed to him. “As I was saying – I take care of my people. I kill those who need killing. I take the stain on my soul so that my people remain pure.” She smiled, fondly. “The Havi abhor violence. Bless them.”

“The ones who brought us here seemed to enjoy it well enough,” said Kjell stiffly, rubbing an awkward shoulder along his bruised jaw. She grinned at him.

“This is a prison,” she said, spreading her arms wide to embrace the stone walls. “This is where the sinners and the criminals of Havian society end up, to spend their days atoning for their crimes. The degenerates come to me. Those with a taste for violence, those who are too bold. Those who are unlucky, or those who have to choose between their souls and self-defence.

Like myself, they all have a debt to pay to society. They take on the acts of violence so that the ordinary citizens may be protected from it. They are the wardens and the army, they are the watchers. This is their punishment.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“Alright?” said Ansel.

“Tell me,” said the Mester, in a more conversational tone. She picked up a quill and dipped it in her inkwell with an administrative air. Then she pulled a stack of paper towards her and looked up at them both expectantly. “Have either of you killed a person before? I think I know the answer but I would hear it from your own lips.” She looked up at them expectedly, but without rancor.

Her manner threw Ansel off entirely. He and Kjell exchanged alarmed glances. She was obviously mad.

“Yes,” said Ansel. What was the point of denying it? “Only ever in self-defense. If that matters.” His gut twisted. A parade of violence leapt and danced its way through his brain. Self-defense, what was self-defense? Had killing Boaz been self-defense? Marlow? Reuben? His back straightened. Yes. Yes, it was. Kip was alive because of him. It was not his fault. He might have failed miserably to save his mother, to save the savages, to save Talcott, but he had done his best.

“Good, good,” said the Mester, scribbling something down. “And yes, it matters. How about you?” She raised her eyebrows at Kjell.

“Err…yes?” said the big man, clearly confused.

“Right,” she said, setting the quill down. “You are in the right place. Do you understand that I cannot let two renegade Lochlanach loose in my countryside? Even if you profess to have left your own. If you wish to live on my land then you are bound to the rules that govern it.”

“You are not going to kill us?” said Kjell.

“Probably not,” she said. “I’m hoping that we can come to an arrangement. The Own needs men. You need a home. Now, I have some knowledge of the Lochlanach Empire,” and her smile broadened. She was speaking, Ansel realised, with a slight Stonehaven accent. A chill ran down his spine. “But,” she continued, “I am very busy. I am hoping you can teach my people about gun craft, about your airships. When my Own captured you, they found a most fascinating machine. An airship unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I would be most interested in learning about such a vessel.”

Ansel fought the urge to look at Kjell. The Mester smiled, as if she knew everything. Perhaps she did.

“We need all the help we can get. We fended off the last assault of your countrymen’s airships but-” her lip twisted “-we had help I do not know if I can count on going forward. Let me be candid. I fear for my people. I will not coerce your cooperation, but I would like it very much.”

She looked at them, waiting.

“You have a funny way of asking,” said Ansel, at last.

“I understand you,” she said, nodding.

“By the Empresses’ right tit you do,” snarled Kjell. Ansel’s gut tightened in alarm but the woman merely laughed.

“It may surprise you, but I believe I do,” she said. “We are the same. You have both tried to do the right thing. I understand what drives you to do terrible things, in the name of survival, to endure, to protect those we love. I understand you better than you think.” She paused, her eyes haunted. For a moment she was lost in her own thoughts. Then she looked up. “I spoke to the survivors of Sterlester.”

“Sterlester?” Ansel asked.

“The city under the mountain,” said the Mester. “The one your people destroyed on their arrival. The name of that once great settlement was Sterlester. There have been people living there for centuries. The city was ancient, the people were no threat to anyone...but... fortunately for you both, I know the truth of what happened. Otherwise… I might be inclined to be less lenient.”

Kjell and Ansel both stared straight ahead. Neither of them had ever spoken of the massacre. The memories were too dark, and the feelings too uncertain. Ansel blinked, trying not to see it again, those flickering lives.

“I cannot pardon your sins of violence,” said the Mester. “That power belongs only to the Ancestors and is not mine to gift. But I can offer you atonement, and a life with purpose. You have three options: you can join the Ancestor’s Own, of your own free will, you can learn our ways, and teach us the magics and crafts of the Lochlanach. In return we will feed and shelter you, and teach you our ways, our magics.” Ansel brightened. “Option two,” she continued, “you can spend the rest of your lives in a cell, sucking up resources and contributing nothing, with the occasional sojourn to work in the kitchens. Ancestors know we need the labour.”

“What’s the third option?” asked Ansel.

“Death,” she said, with a smile. “I recommend option one, but as I said, it’s your choice.”

She waited, the smile hovering on her lips.

“We chose option one,” said Ansel. Kjell nodded, his eyes grave. They could worry about Kip and Jethro later. So far it seemed like the Havi thought he and Kjell were alone. First things first. No need to say anything till they had a better handle on their situation. They should be alright, safe enough in their floating house.

“Good,” said the Mester, standing up. “Welcome to the Ancestor’s Own.”

“That easy, hey?” said Kjell.

“There’s just one more thing,” said the Mester. She held out a silver dagger, its point shining wickedly in the guttering witch-lights. “I can’t have you spreading wild tales, so my demon will need a drop of your blood, to assure your silence.”

She made it sound like she was asking for a cup of sugar from a neighbour. Ansel swallowed. The metallic tang of magic hung thick and heavy in the air. It was here, he realised. The demon was in the room with them. He looked around wildly, even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to see it. What would Ezra see? If he was in the room with them?

The Mester walked around her desk and Ansel resisted the urge to back away. She smiled at him, and so tall was she, that at their heads were nearly level. With a practiced slice she cut the bonds holding his hands together. He breathed out, rubbing the life back into his wrists.

“Your blood?” she asked, politely.

He held up one hand. What else could he do?

The Mester sliced the blade into his flesh, making a stinging, shallow cut. Her eyes flashed blue, rolling in her head.

“Bind him, Moloch,” she whispered.

Ansel repressed a shudder. He tore his eyes away and stared down at the blood welling in his palm. The Mester turned to Kjell and repeated the performance.

“There,” she said. Holding the silver dagger lightly she returned to her desk and wiped it clean, before putting it away. She tossed clean rags to Ansel and Kjell. “Now we understand each other. Welcome to the Ancestor’s Own.”